


A Worthy King

by OccasionallyCreative



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-04 19:58:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10997922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OccasionallyCreative/pseuds/OccasionallyCreative
Summary: Recently made King after a lengthy war, and seeking an alliance with enemies still licking old wounds, Kylo Ren seeks a bride. For his choice, he decides upon Lady Rey Kenobi.





	A Worthy King

**Author's Note:**

  * For [politicalmamaduck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/politicalmamaduck/gifts).



> I originally had this as part of my Anthology, but I've decided to post it as a separate one-shot instead. (Mostly because of a certain promo pic for a certain film, featuring a certain [Daisy Ridley](http://www.empireonline.com/people/daisy-ridley/first-image-daisy-ridley-ophelia/)...)
> 
> Gifted to politicalmamaduck as she gave me the original prompt of "Reylo, medieval AU" which spawned this. I've been wanting to write medieval Reylo for a long time, a Long Time Indeed, and I took inspiration for this story from the unconventional courtship between Matilda of Flanders and William the Conqueror.

The messenger was a lean-formed man and he bowed on entering. Kylo Ren leant back in his chair, tapping his finger against his cheek. His hound, loyal Armitage, whined at his feet and sniffed the air. Servants poured wine for Ren’s advisors, their eyes avoiding the parchments laid out on the long table. The flames of the hearth flickered, lighting up half of the messenger’s form. Sweat lingered on his upper lip.

“Your Majesty,” said the messenger. He bowed for the third time. Ren ignored the breach of etiquette and the messenger’s nerves. An open window let in the evening wind. It caught the candle flames and snatched the edges of the parchment.

“Yes?” he asked, his voice mellow enough for the messenger to tremble and oscillate on his feet.

“The lady Rey gave me a reply to your message, and insisted I speak it exactly.” 

Ren waved a hand, a wordless order for the messenger to continue. The messenger swallowed. 

“She says, Majesty… ‘I will not marry a bastard’.”

Kylo’s eyes flicked towards the flames. His advisors paused. The constant scratch of ink on parchment, letters to allies, stalled. The fire in the hearth surged with the evening wind, growing stronger. Ren shifted in his seat. Battles fought, a war won, and his mother’s legacy… forgotten by the actions of the father.

Other lords and dukes had bent the knee to him. They had readily sworn their sword and their fealty to the son of Queen Organa. 

The story of her affair with her most trusted general had forever been a black mark on her reign. The general who’d seduced a queen, the queen who had born a bastard. 

He knew the truth: his mother loved, his father loved, and an overseas rebellion had taken him before they could be wed. Kylo smirked briefly. The general who’d seduced a queen. Who had run away to fight the last battle, and, in the end, had laid the foundations for his queen’s downfall. 

Kylo turned his head from the flames and leant forward in his chair.

He inclined his head. “Anything else?”

“No, Your Majesty.”

“Pay the man for his trouble,” said Kylo after the ensuing silence, gesturing to one of his advisors, a scrawny man with a red beard. The messenger, coins soon in his palm, hurried from the high-arched hall.

Kylo jumped from his chair, pacing the length of the hearth. It was a clear answer, with clearer implications. In the time of his grandmother, Queen Amidala, her grandfather, the old General Kenobi, had been a fierce warrior, with his own army loyal to the queen. 

For a time, he had served Kylo's mother too. Those who spoke of him said he greeted death as amiably as he had greeted friend or foe in life.

His son, the inheritor of the dukedom, was said to be as formidable as his father. The single thing that was different was his hatred for Queen Organa.

Kylo shook his head, clamping his eyes shut. He opened them when all he found were memories of the court. The grand hall where she’d stood, whispering into her lady-in-waiting’s ear and laughing softly, dark eyes bright and a radiant smile touching the corners of her mouth. 

The daughter, it was clear, shared the traits of her lineage. 

Kylo sighed, sinking back into his chair. Armitage whined again. Kylo reached down, brushing his fingers against the hound’s fur.

“I can get an heir from any marriage,” Kylo murmured, to no-one in particular. His advisors spoke among themselves, more suited to war than the delicacy of politics. Kylo understood their anxiety, feeling it himself. He’d not won this kingdom through allying himself to courtly love. He’d won it on the battlefield.

Kylo sucked in a breath. He closed his eyes. Behind them, he saw her again. Her eyes. The worst part of it all was her eyes. Her politics, the potential of her power, made her a delicious catch, of course (to tame the daughter of his mother’s hated enemy, it would be another legend to attach to his name), but it was her eyes that made him want her. By his side, in this hall, on the battlefield, in his bed.

Rivalries be damned. 

He wanted her more than he wanted any victory.

Oh, obviously, he could marry another. Quell the growing discontent of his people, the murmurings of resistance, by marrying some blushing daughter of another rebellious lord and producing an heir. Stop the fear he could feel in his advisors that their master’s claim was weak, that every day he was without allies, he risked losing what they’d fought so hard for.

“I’ll be gone for a matter of days,” Kylo snapped, turning to depart the hall. Armitage barked. “Make preparations for when I return.”

“For what, sir?” asked one of his advisors.

“A wedding,” Kylo replied. A smile grew on his lips.

No. She had said no to a king.

That alone made her a worthy queen.

* * *

The morning frost had begun to fade into dew. From the top of the hill, Kylo watched as the doors to the castle gate opened. The castle itself was distant beyond the battlements, a grey stone fortress in the winter morning. The rain had followed his journey, and his damp hair stuck to his neck and brow. The moat that surrounded the castle was deep but swollen from the storm. The murky water lapped the grassy banks.

Across the drawbridge, came a train. Leading the way, her ladies-in-waiting attending, was her. The lady Rey. She wore a gown of burgundy, marking her against the dull green of the landscape. Half of her long hair was pinned back; the other half, dark brown tresses, flowed free down her back and over her chest. 

When first he’d seen her, among the sycophantic crowd of the French court, all those months ago, when his victory was half a war away, and people looked upon him divisively, some loyal and others clinging to the old, she’d worn a cap like the other women, her dark hair hidden away. Kylo smirked. Here, among the grounds of her family, it was clear that she didn't care at all for society.

Free, as well as clever.

A stable boy followed the train out, holding the reins of a white gelding. She took the reins in hand, thanking the stable boy with a smile.

Kylo urged his horse into a gallop, down the hill, towards the drawbridge.

It did not take her, or her ladies-in-waiting, long to see him. Some questioned their mistress on what they were to do; the lady Rey quietened them, holding the reins of her horse tight. Her horse whickered as Kylo came to a stop before her train.

“My lady,” he said. He dismounted from his horse, staring down at her. She returned his look of examination, but not his greeting. Kylo grinned. She looked like she could rule the world and its stars, let alone a kingdom.

“My message displeased you,” she said plainly, without an address. Kylo swallowed back a laugh.

“No,” he said, patting the neck of his horse. He turned his eyes back to her. His look grew heated. “Tell me your message again. I want to hear it from your own lips, my lady.”

“Is your memory so short?” asked she. He gave no answer. Her head tilted to one side.

Kylo’s look darkened. Her eyes brightened in reply.

“My lady,” he spoke softly, stepping towards her until her neck was tilted back, staring fully, defiantly, up at him, “you will repeat your message.”

She edged closer to her horse, making to dismount. Kylo lashed out, gripping her arm and whirling her around.

“Sir!”

“Your Majesty,” Kylo snapped, speaking to the lady-in-waiting, but his eyes on Rey. She was, on the surface, calm in the face of his rage. Kylo looked deeper and found himself smiling. Oh, there was anger there. Anger learned from her father; anger easily tamed.

“I will not marry a bastard.” She said the words with brittle finality. Kylo glared, feeling the natural rage at the insult.

“I am the son and heir of Queen Organa,” he said slowly. His gloved fingers slipped against the loose curls of her hair, stroking the nape of her neck, as he bent closer to her, whispering in her ear. “Marry me, my lady.”

Her head inclined towards him, her breath at his ear and on his neck. Little in his hands, but like her father, fierce and stubborn.

“Bastard.”

Kylo let her go. She stepped back, climbing onto her horse. Kylo watched her. His anger simmered. It simmered and bloomed into a slip of a smile.

No, this wouldn’t do. Her father was old, the reports said. Weak. Dying. For her to continue this blemish, to let it be remembered… It wouldn’t do at all.

Storming forward, he reached up and took her by the waist. Her ladies-in-waiting shrieked as their mistress, thrown from her horse, ended up in the muddy grass. Kylo dropped into a crouch as Rey, panting, composure scattered into the winter wind, clambered to her knees. Mud marked her all down her left side. Her cheek was scratched with grass.

Kylo reached forward. He slid his gloved hand underneath her jaw.

“Marry me, my lady,” he repeated.

Her composure returned to her, the anger in her eyes slipping behind her silence.

He could abduct her, of course. Throw her onto his horse, tie her hands and cover her mouth, and force her to love him. But what would that do? Fuel the flames of the myth, tarnish the name Organa ever more.

Standing, Kylo mounted his horse and turned to advance up the hill. Entering the town, he found a tavern and took a room for the night. Gossip spread quickly in the dukedom. It seemed that the duke wished to kill the new boy-king. Kylo laughed at that, a soft chuckle to himself. 

One man, a drunkard, recognised him. Mocked him. Called him “child”, bowed and wondered aloud if he could merely fuck the lady Rey into submission.

Kylo threw the first punch. He beat the drunkard until his gloves were spattered with blood. The fight wasn’t fair from the start, and it did nothing to erase the noise in his mind.

* * *

Night, the fear in the town at his presence there, whatever it was that drew him back to the castle, was unimportant. Disguising himself, the hood of a cloak thrown over his face and wearing the doublet of one of the duke’s guards, Kylo wandered through the quiet activity of the keep, hurrying up the steps to the castle. Soldiers wandered the battlements, staring out over the landscape. The Duke’s colours covered the walls of the keep. The arms of his house, his family, flapped in the wind.

The noise in Kylo's brain still sounded. Louder and louder, roaring in his ears, as he opened the castle door. He stepped inside. The castle was dark, save for the lights of braziers. Moonlight trickled through high windows. Kylo drew back his hood as he wandered the shadowed corridors and steps of the castle. Her father, arrogant creature, did not have guards by every room, no patrols on the corridors.

Dukes like her father always tended to keep their daughters hidden in the higher levels. The turrets, the towers. Kylo wandered down the corridor leading out from the great hall.

Her voice, mixed with the idle conversation of a maid, spoke of water that was the right temperature. Kylo hid in the shadows of an alcove as the maid opened the bedchamber door and walked quickly down the yellow stone corridor. Her father thought himself clever. No-one would think an only daughter would have rooms so close to the main activity of the castle. Or perhaps she'd insisted on the rooms herself. 

If it had not been for her voice, he'd still be wandering stairs and empty towers. 

Fate, it seemed, did not wish for such a predicament.

Kylo hurried forward. Though he smiled, his hand trembled as he reached for the latch. He snatched his fingers against his palm, breathing.

He had promised himself, his advisors, that he would not return without a bride. Fate had brought him to her.

Kylo gripped the latch and opened the door.

A wide washing bowl stood to the side of the room. A table stood beside it. The wax of lit candles dripped onto the table's wooden surface.

She sat, naked, on a chair before the bowl of water. A rag was in her hands. Her fingers, along with the rag, disappeared underneath the water. She sloshed the water over her ankle, raising the rag higher over her skin, her palm curving over the shapely curve of her calf. It descended, circling around the shape of her ankle once more. Kylo’s eyes found her hips and the purple mark that stained it. Kylo lifted his eyes, swallowing. Somehow, despite the triumph he’d felt at seeing her, in the mud, his hand tucked underneath her jaw, he felt ashamed now.

In the dim light, her dark eyes found his. 

She stared at him, stoic.

Kylo’s body worked by itself. Stepping forward, dropping his cloak to the floor, he sank to his knees before her.

His left hand curved around her ankle, the pads of his fingers stroking the low of her calf. He softly lifted her leg from the water, watching with odd fascination the droplets of water sliding over her skin, into the lines of the stone floor.

He set her foot into his lap and lifted his head. His right hand reached up. Tentatively, he reached for the rag. She turned her palm face up, letting the rag spill from her fingers. His left hand remained at her ankle. 

The water was warm on the rag and his knuckles, scuffed from past battles and the hilts of broadswords. Kylo squeezed the rag, watching the water run, then touched the damp cloth to her skin. A jolt ran through him. The noise quietened inside him.

The last time he had felt that way, he’d won a war and been crowned a king.

She allowed him to wash her hips and stomach but took over from there. Still on his knees, watching her with a dumbfounded numbness, sweet silence in his mind, he watched as she washed her breasts, her neck, her arms clean of dirt and sweat. Her hair, black in the light, was completely free, settled around her shoulders and down her back.

Her eyes returned to him as she set the rag to one side. The water glistened on her skin.

“Undress.” She spoke, just one word, and he slowly obeyed. She stood as he complied, wandering her bedchambers. She ran her fingers over the machinery of a loom, over the spines of books left on a table; over the sewing left on a chair.

Finally, she sat among the furs and sheets of her bed by the nest of pillows. Kylo set his boots to one side, naked as she. Rey pointed to the edge of the bed.

“There.”

Again, he obeyed. He couldn’t say why. Would never quite be able to say why he had. He heard her stand. The pad of her footsteps as she walked towards him. He felt her hands on his shoulders. Her fingers traced over the scars he’d long grown used to. With every one of her touches, he remembered their source, the punishments he’d endured before he’d fought for a kingdom; when he wasn’t even a bastard. Just a claimant to a tarnished throne, without hope for returning the honour of his family.

“I wasn’t always a duke’s daughter. He found me,” she confessed. Kylo listened, intent on catching every whispered word. Anything that brought her to his cause, brought down her arrogant father. He felt her inner thigh stroke the flesh of his leg as she knelt. Straddled him, like he was nothing but a creature beneath her for her to rule. Her hands brushed over the line of his back, and her fingers linked together against the nape of his neck.

For a long time, she watched him in examination. Occasionally, her eyes flickered, taking in his naked form. 

“I was an orphan, for a long time," she said, "then he passed me on the street one day, saw me as an urchin, and knew me somehow. The lost daughter. He claims it was Fate, the hand of God bringing me back to him.”

There was silence for a long while. 

“An enemy king who is brave enough to enter into my father’s palace…” she said slowly, “must have some courage.”

Her right hand left his nape. Her fingers brushed and sank into his hair, briefly, before they descended. Stroking the expanse of his torso, tripping over the fresh scars on his stomach. Her hand slid between them, between his thighs.

He met her eyes.

"Do you?"

She touched the length of him hesitantly at first. The mask she wore flickered, just as his began to crack and shatter.

Gasping at the base of his throat, he buried his face into her neck, kissing her damp skin, his palms caressing her body; the high of her back, the small of it, savouring her heat and the lingering water.

She let him roll them until she lay underneath him. Him, now above her, his arms locked straight against either side of her head. She, her knee curling up to stroke against his hip, making him quiver, and her hands on his shoulders. Among furs and sheets. Her long hair tangled over her breasts. 

He brushed the tendrils of her hair away and lowered his lips to her breasts. He kissed each nipple until they were hardened and she was gasping in the throat underneath his touch.

"Ally with me," he murmured as he slid back, gently kneeling before her. He softly spread her legs, sinking his fingers into her, testing her.

She was wet, gloriously so. 

To slice a sword across a man's stomach was the same feeling. Her gasps became quicker, but not yet an answer. He returned to her, still his fingers exploring her sweet hot centre. With his free hand, he pressed his forefinger and middle finger against her cheek. He tilted her head towards him. 

Their breaths were inches between, their heartbeats chasing and catching up to one another.

He could've stolen a kiss. Instead, he spoke.

"Give me my answer."

She moaned, sighed, and pressed her hands to his shoulders again. Kylo kept his eyes on her body as he knelt before her. His attention focused entirely on her face as he switched his fingers for his mouth. She tasted like a campfire, all heat and smoke and fire. The curve of her jaw, he watched it tighten as she sucked in her answer. He watched her bottom lip caught by her teeth as she tried to protect the coming moan.

He worked harder. Let the duke discover us, Kylo thought, giving her cunt a savage lick. He would gladly have her father discover him, the boy-king, tearing her to pieces with his tongue. Oh, the death sentence would be swift, but he would go to the axe with this memory.

Still, she made no noise outright. She only let out squeaks and hitched breaths destined to become wailing and howling moans.

He finally let her go, sliding his hands from around her inner thighs. His fingerprints peppered her skin in red blemishes, that would be faded by morning light. 

She slid up the bed. The furs followed. They flopped and tangled against her shoulders, over her breast. Kylo tugged them away, letting them slide over the edge of her bed. Then he pulled her closer, now returned to his rightful place before her, his face buried into her neck, and her legs spread.

He sank into her with a groan, a pant, another, another—

Her fingers took hold of his hair, and she brought him to her breast. She kissed his temple. He flexed his hips, withdrawing and returning, slamming into her as she whispered into his ear.

"Yes," she sighed. It was a vague term. He slammed into her again, growling. Punishment. She took it with a caught groan, then sigh. She sank happily into the punishment until it was not a punishment at all but a fulfilment of what she wanted.

The noise was far away now, the numb view of the world, through blood and swords leaving him. All he could see were colours. The pale pink of her flesh, the vivid red of the flush on her cheeks. Silver moonlight, grey wolfskin. Brown bearskin.

"Yes," he repeated back to her, barely space between their skins. 

"Yes," was the word breathed into the following silence, where her soft moans and hitched breaths had been left scattered.

She held him close. Her nose nuzzled the hollow of his cheek. He stroked her temple in return. They pressed their foreheads together, racing towards the completion. Her fingers nestled among his dark curls.

The moonlight shone over their bodies. He had no worth here, not in this bed. Neither did she. They were merely flesh and bone, heartbeats in sync, breaths interminable. He could be a King, she could be a high-born lady. They could be peasants, fucking rough on the floor before their fire. He could be a lord, and she could be the Queen.

Either way, they were flesh and fire and blood and they were together.


End file.
